Prince Albert’s household is to be entirely re-modelled, and one or two new offices are to be added, the want of which has hitherto occasioned his Royal Highness much inconvenience. Of these, we are only authorised in alluding, at present, to Tooth-brush in Ordinary, and Shaving-pot in Waiting. There is no foundation for the report that there is to be a Lord High Clothes-brush, or Privy Boot-jack.
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A VOICE FROM THE AREA.
The following letter has been addressed to us by a certain party, who, as our readers will perceive, has been one of the sufferers by the late clearance made in a fashionable establishment at the West-end:—
DEAR PUNCH.—As you may not be awair of the mallancoly change wich as okkurred to the pore sarvunts here, I hassen to let you no—that every sole on us as lost our plaices, and are turnd owt—wich is a dredful klamity, seeing as we was all very comfittible and appy as we was. I must say, in gustis to our Missus, that she was very fond of us, and wouldn’t have parted with one of us if she had her will: but she’s only a O in her own howse, and is never aloud to do as she licks. We got warning reglar enuff, but we still thort that somethink might turn up in our fever. However, when the day cum that we was to go, it fell upon us like a thunderboat. You can’t imagine the kunfewshion we was all threw into—every body packing up their little afares, and rummidging about for any trifele that wasn’t worth leaving behind. The sarvunts as is cum in upon us is a nice sett; they have been a long wile trying after our places, and at last they have suckseeded in underminding us; but it’s my oppinion they’ll never be able to get through the work of the house;—all they cares for is the vails and purkussites. I forgot to menshun that they hadn’t the decency to wait till we was off the peremasses, wich I bleave is the etticat in sich cases, but rushed in on last Friday, and tuck possession of all our plaices before we had left the concirn. I leave you to judge by this what a hurry they was to get in. There’s one comfurt, however, that is—we’ve left things in sich a mess in the howse, that I don’t think they’ll ever be able to set them to rites again. This is all at present from your afflickted friend,
JOHN THE FOOTMAN.
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“I declare I never knew a flatter companion than yourself,” said Tom of Finsbury, the other evening, to the lion of Lambeth. “Thank you, Tom,” replied the latter; “but all the world knows that you’re a flatter-er.” Tom, in nautical phrase, swore, if he ever came athwart his Hawes, that he would return the compliment with interest.
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MY FRIEND TOM.
Truth wants no ornament.”—ROGERS.